


Release

by thebluehedgehog



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, POV First Person, Stress, Stress Relief
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-28
Updated: 2015-06-28
Packaged: 2018-04-06 15:43:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4227546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebluehedgehog/pseuds/thebluehedgehog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A short story about stress and how it feels for it to all disintegrate at once. 1st pov, female</p>
            </blockquote>





	Release

          Gym class was over, one more class until lunch and I will have made it through half the day without getting in trouble. Normally not a concern, but the incident yesterday afternoon had gotten the attention of the headmaster which unfortunately entailed some vague threat about a list and being watched. Again.

          It wasn't as though I started it, I never do. Someone says something, I keep walking. Someone, sometimes the same person, tries again. Occasionally they hit the right button, sometimes they grab my shoulder to make sure I heard. What is interesting about grabbing a shoulder is that most people do it with a bent arm; one small step with a twist is all that is needed to send an elbow at a face. Most people don't take that well, but the dumb ones get angry, the annoying ones cry for a teacher. Yesterday was a dumb one.

          I sigh as I close the locker and head for the mirror room, a long room narrow between two sets of doors, with mirrors on one of the short walls and benches around the other three. It wouldn't be so bad if there were breaks, but with the faculty serving as police, judge, and mediator 24/7 the smallest things were hard to keep hidden if it would be to someone's advantage to bring it to light. It usually was.

          As per usual, _her_ group has claimed the back of the room, pretending to be secretive as her voice carries clearly. I think she'd look prettier with a black eye, not that anyone would notice with all the eyeliner, but the touch of purple and yellow would be interesting. Not today though, she'd wring it for all she could and have her sheep back her up. Come to think of it, she cried that one time I looked at her,  and the teacher didn't respond at all. I suppress the small smile quickly.

          Stopping before the next set of doors, I turn and take a couple steps toward the mirrors. Blazer straightened, skirt over knees, attempt to use fingers to persuade my hair to lay flat on my scalp until it reaches the dress code, low bun the rest is pulled into.

"Hey, don't just jump in front of someone and the mirrors!"

Not today. I inhale slowly through my nose, hiding the reaction, determined to not respond.

          She stops beside me, in front of the line between two mirrors, pretending she doesn't already think she looks perfect. I can feel my shoulders stiffen, my back a little taller, and I drop my hands to my sides pretending to pat away wrinkles in my skirt. She inches sideways, moving closer while pretending I don't exist. She must be square with the line where the two mirrors meet, playing a game that she has more right to be there than me; I brace my legs, not letting my feet move despite her shoulder pressing into mine. My whole body was now stiff, immobile, with even my breathing strictly controlled.

          She is just trying to provoke me, daring me to sock her in the eye. Then she'd win. But doesn't she win if I don't? I might not get in trouble but she will get to bother me and walk away without any retribution, mine or from the teachers. My shoulders push backwards, elbows bending slightly from their locked position. The image of myself blurs in my sight as I focus on my nails pressing indentations into my palm; just a little harder and they won't fade until I am sitting in my next class.

          My attention clears and I see the bristled version of me in the mirror. Quickly, I forcibly stretch my lips into a smile, slight but noticeable, and raise my cheeks to cause a bit of a squint in my eyes - that is the key to making a smile look real, to having it 'show through the eyes' as people say.

          Next I consider my hands, which seem to be in fists although I know better; I can feel the difference piercing into the flesh of my palms. I release my fingers, stiffly holding my hands open, before bringing them in front and clasping my palms together.

          Another slide toward me and my torso leans. Rejecting the possibility of moving my right foot away from her to regain my balance, I push back without fully forming the thought, my aim merely to hold my body upright. My right wrist twists, slipping its set of fingers under the other, left fingernails fitting between the bones lining the back of my right hand. The pressure on my arm from hers increases, she is pushing back. I hold my ground, my arm and body unyielding. I check my face in the mirror, I could feel the mask slipping, so I allow it to skew, shifting just enough that it might be construed as a smirk.

          She lifts her weight, which I realize now was how she was pushing me, not strength. I should have taken a step back and let her fall. Too late. She had counted on me not moving. Just as my balance adjusts it hits me, I don't know if it was the realization or her sharp shoulder first. I don't know if she was so brazen as to be fully separated or if our sleeves had still been in contact.

          I do know that I shoved the idea that I could stumble, back as hard as I could. My right foot had moved to brace, outward and slightly behind. A thought as to the bruise that would be just below my shoulder flits through my mind but fails to latch onto anything. I blink, noticing my hesitation, and look to my adversary now a metre away. I can feel that my face has fallen back to neutral, mercifully wiped clean of the fake smile.

          It's too late now. Too easy to spin tall-tales with truth enough to hold water. No, I shouldn't, maybe there isn't enough yet. Her mouth hung open, eyes wide, surprised I had pushed back instead of merely holding my ground. My hands shift, wanting to break free but instead my nails each find a fresh spot. Will anyone care though? They have never cared before when I claimed to not be the one to start trouble. Now the lies fit into expectations, and they can take liberties. I squeeze my shoulders back as I roll them, their tightening serving as pleas to act against my better judgment.

          I could punch her pretty painted face, help her make it _special_. One of her feet slide back. S he may stand as though unwilling to give but would easily fall down, or run screaming that I nearly killed her, before I make contact. I could do just that, give her something to tattle on and the marks to prove it. If they are going to tell the teachers I might as well have gotten to do it. My neck begins to ache and I pull my shoulders downward.

          Her lips are moving, she's been saying something to me. There are other voices, forming a hushed buzzing like cicadas. Should I listen? She might be pleading for leniency. No, she wouldn't, and if she did any truce wouldn't last beyond the first teacher. I've been through that before. She's probably egging me on, wanting assurance that she could get me expelled. How silly of her, short-sighted anyway, she'd need to sacrifice one of her lambs for a replacement object of torment if that happens.

          My deliberations were interrupted by something touching my back, lightly. Long enough to reach across both shoulder blades at the middle, it felt solid, round, and smooth. My adversary is tight-lipped, her words having stopped unnoticed, looking up at something over my head. A glance around the room, my head stationary as my eyes dart around, taking notice that all the voices had stopped. I look back to the mirror and see a tall man in a suit, the school's headmaster, standing behind me. His reflection surveys the room and settles on her, avoiding my gaze.

          Surprise fading, she begins to speak, her voice betraying nervousness. It takes a moment to focus on the words, she is telling him how I pushed her when we were both simply using the mirrors. How I walked in front of her and then stood so close that the seam between the mirror had most certainly been in the way. She didn't even build the story on the path she started with, clearly unprepared. Do the faculty really not see what is going on? They were students once too.

          My jaw clenches, to find my teeth already pressed together and muscles aching. I release, setting my jaw once more with my tongue between my teeth, holding it tightly. It's lies. My head slowly shakes no, subtly, with each pass growing longer little by little. But what can I say against those claims?

          Her parrots start in, echoing their leader's words, a brave few adding embellishments. Some stood, some of those had worked their way closer. My fingers shift again and my hands stiffen. Suddenly aware of my ribcage my lungs feel like they are gasping for air but I don't let it show on my face. Their words fade to noise and I slowly force myself to accept that there's nothing I can say that will matter.

I could just accept my fate, earn those lies and go out swinging. Break her lying teeth. Claw gouges in her face.

          The cane pushes into my upper back, breaking my string of thoughts. My lungs skip a beat but keep going. It isn't much force, just enough to go from hovering on my blazer to being felt against my skin, my back hard against it. My attention returns to the mirror, but his reflection is looking away, at her, pointedly avoiding my gaze. Searching his face I find myself unable to read anything. I lean back, pushing against the cane.

          The first of our interaction betrayed by the mirror is his wrist, he twists it and his cane begins to move up and down in short strokes. A glance at the reflection of the audience shows them all too enraptured by the speakers to take note. My fingers loosen, unwilling to push further or shift to a free spot. I notice that my tongue has slipped from between my teeth, resting at the roof of my mouth.

          The headmaster breaks his silence, interrupting the retellings petering off around him. Words leave his lips, the sound in stark contrast to the female voices it replaced. He starts on about how violence is always wrong, at which she smiles. There is a place for violence, he continues, but it is never the place of a person to start it.

          My mouth opens before I can hold back; I can feel my chest take a quick breath, but lacking any interest in restraint, speaking words before my retort was fully formed.

"I - There are two m-"

          The cane against my back disappears, and I realize I had still been leaning into it. My left foot lands behind me, twisting me toward her. I've heard this speech before but it's not me that needs to hear it. I've  _tried_ to ignore it all. I've  _tried_ to walk away before.

          Coarse words fly through my mind, each fighting to be at the front when the moment strikes. My shoulders rear back, and hands fall to my sides, tightly closed . My jaw, newly set, opens. Hesitating for no more than a blink, torn between shouting and being heard,  I start with an accusatory question.

"What -"

          In a flash the air catches in my throat and the rest of my words fall away. The headmaster is still talking, continuing as though I'm not there; I can't make out the words and feel that I might not be. I can feel something digging into my back between my shoulder blades. My hands open at my sides. It feels strange, as though my muscles want to give in. I try to push against the cane, but something in my leg shakes instead.

          As a lean back the sensation intensifies, my shoulders falling lax in response. Surrendering to the knowledge that my words of retort were lost, my tongue falls from the roof of my mouth and as my jaw relaxes I recognize the warm feeling from those muscles as the same spreading over my shoulders. I consider checking the mirror and people in it, but instead my eyes simply close. I find myself vaguely aware that he is still speaking to, no, now with, her and the others, but I cannot seem to care. They all seem so far away and my ears won't focus on the words enough to make them out.

          My arms feel heavy, no, too light to move. I can feel the muscles in my legs twitch, wanting to succumb but engaging to hold me up. It takes too much effort, I could just fall, let go of the last of my stubbornness and let this sensation take over. But if I were to fall, I would be separated from the pressure causing all of this. My desire to remain standing, my will to fight back, I can feel them fading.

          The fabric of my blazer and shirt twist with the end of the cane, pulling at one shoulder and tugging at my waistband, a terse movement no more than 180 degrees. I could feel it deep in my back, forcing the last strain in my shoulder muscles to release, pulling at my neck until it too released when I could hold my breath no longer.

          The twitching in my legs stopped at once, no longer resisting. Knees fold, head lulls forward, and the floor rushes toward me but although I know I should, I simply don't care. There is just the presence of mind left to thrust my arms up so that I land on my forearms along with my knees. The pressure digging between my shoulders remained, falling with me. As my hips sink to my feet, my forehead lowered to the floor. Only after several breaths did I note that my chest was falling lower to the floor as well.

          There is a delay between when the cane is removed from my back and I notice, along with the realization that the headmaster has finished his lesson. The next thing I register is him knelt beside me, saying something quietly. I can't make out the words, but when he gets up my body does as well having apparently heard him. I follow him, half a step behind, into the hallway. He keeps going and my legs follow as if on autopilot.

          Just as my legs start to feel normal he stops, only for a second, and without looking back tells me he'll have to expel me. He waits to explain why until we are both sitting in his office, a desk between us: "With your record my hands are tied." He continues to talk, something about other schools or options, but I don't care. I don't think it is from whatever he did either, I just have one thought clouds out everything else: 'I won't have to deal with them anymore.' I knew that wherever I went there would still be this game, but at least there would be a chance that it could end up differently. I could be free, at least to choose what game this time.

 


End file.
